Guns and Guilt
by Aimless
Summary: One of the team is injured and another feels guilty. COMPLETE


TITLE: Guns and Guilt  
  
AUTHOR: Aimless - aimless_210@hotmail.com  
  
RATING: PG - some minor language and violence  
  
SPOILERS: None  
  
SYNOPSIS: One of the team is injured.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them (sigh - if only) and I'm not making a dime here. No copyright infringement is intended so please don't sue me. Besides, all you'd get is a pocket full of lint, a couple of cats, and some half-dead houseplants.  
  
NOTES: I got a little tired of writing the sappy sweet stories, so I decided to take a break and go for some angst. This is my attempt at a response to Little Wing's Crossfire challenge.  
  
GUNS AND GUILT  
  
I have never liked guns.   
  
Never.  
  
Even as a young child, when other boys my age would run around with their thumb and index finger extended, pretending that their hand was a gun and 'shooting' each other, I always found other things to occupy my time. I would join them in various other activities, but when the imaginary games would switch to cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, or any other good guy / bad guy scenario, I would always excuse myself from the fun.  
  
Yes, in my adult life I've had to handle a gun. I've had to learn to care for it, maintain it, respect it. Embrace it. I've had to learn to direct its powerful, deadly force with accuracy, treating it like an extension of myself. I've had to point and fire it at another human being in self-defense - always in self-defense - ONLY in self-defense. I've had to watch as the bullets hit their intended targets and as crimson stains spread from the points of impact. I could only pray that I had wounded them, nothing more, all the while repeating over and over to myself that if I hadn't pulled the trigger of that gun my friends or I could have been killed. Sometimes this helps to ease my conscience, but usually it doesn't.  
  
Yesterday, I learned a new lesson about guns and a new reason to hate them.   
  
I learned that once the trigger is pulled and the bullet leaves the barrel, that's it. That's the extent of control you have over them. The bullet will travel a straight line from the barrel of the gun and bore into the first object unfortunate enough to cross its path. There's no pulling it back. You're committed. If something should step between the bullet and its intended target...  
  
The doctors tell us that he's going to be fine. The bullet merely grazed the side of his head. He should wake up soon. He'll probably be disoriented, confused, and have a major headache. He might not remember the events leading to his hospitalization, but the doctors don't foresee any long-term permanent memory loss.   
  
I guess that's supposed to be comforting.  
  
Mac keeps telling me that there was nothing I could have done differently. She says that I made the right decision and there was no way I could have anticipated his movements. Had I not acted when I did, she would have been the one injured - probably dead. She claims that he would agree, even under the circumstances. I simply nod, implying that I agree but secretly reviewing the events in my mind, looking for the one perfect choice that I failed to notice the first time.  
  
It was a mugging. A damn mugging!   
  
Adventure and danger are old, true friends of ours. They go hand in hand with our jobs as explorers. Each time we set off in search of the latest long-lost treasure, we're putting our lives on the line. We've come to expect the unexpected, be it ancient booby-traps, unstable structures, equipment failure, or even overzealous competition. It's all become part of the job and taken for granted that something WILL happen. We've managed to overcome it all so far.   
  
It's amazing that it would be something as...common...as a mugging that would bring one of us down.   
  
Mac walks over to me and places an affectionate arm across my shoulders in response to the humorless snort of laughter that I hadn't realized escaped my lips.  
  
"He's going to be fine," she says in the hushed voice that's seemingly adopted by everyone who enters the room of the injured or ill. "Why don't you go home and get some rest? You look like crap."  
  
Her attempt at humor is completely lost on me. I want to play her game. I want to point out that she looks equally crappy and that I'd noticed the fact that she seems unwilling to follow her own advice. I want to, but the words don't come.   
  
My eyes are glued to the unmoving figure in the hospital bed. He looks so fragile, so vulnerable, so childlike. He would probably have something to say about the use of any of those words, but I can't prevent them from entering my mind. I move my uncomfortable plastic chair closer to the bed and take his lax hand in my own, as if the physical contact will bring him to consciousness sooner or ease my guilt. It's not long before the last 18 hours catch up with me and my eyes begin to droop. I feel a blanket being wrapped around my shoulders and struggle to reopen my eyes.  
  
"Shhh, it's okay," Mac's voice whispers into my ear as she gently strokes a hand through my hair in a soothing gesture. "Just close your eyes and go to sleep."  
  
As much as my mind wants to protest, my body is simply not willing. Reluctantly, I fall into a fitful sleep, visions of the mugging plaguing my dreams.  
  
*~*~*~*  
  
It was close to dark by the time the Vast Explorer docked in Beau Harbor and well after dark by the time we were settled and our daily tasks completed. Our latest mission had been a complete success. The local museum would be receiving a new cache of artifacts and Adventure Inc. would be receiving a hefty finder's fee. In celebration, we decided to treat ourselves to a nice dinner at a nearby restaurant.   
  
The meal finished, we began the short walk home. We were approximately halfway home when a large, beefy arm wrapped around my neck, threatening to cut off my air supply. My sharp hiss of pain was all it took to alert the others to the danger.  
  
"Nobody move!" the mugger ordered as he tightened his hold on my neck and pulled a gun to aim at my friends.  
  
"Hey, take it easy, man," Judson tried to calm him. "We don't want any trouble. Just let him go and we'll give you anything you want."  
  
"What I want," the man ground out through clenched teeth while swinging the gun back and forth between Judson and Mac, "is for you to shut up and give me your money or I'll...I'll...I'll shoot the little girl, here." He leveled the gun on Mac, apparently forgetting that he held me in his grip.  
  
From my vantage point, I could easily see the man's shaking hand, his glassy eyes, and the needle tracks that covered the inside of his elbow. He was probably a drug user needing a fix and not thinking clearly.   
  
"Okay, not a problem," Mac stated as she took a tentative step forward. "We'll give you our money as soon as you let him go."  
  
"Do you think this is some sort of joke, girlie?" the mugger screamed, his body vibrating with need and anger. "Do you think I won't kill you? Well think again!"  
  
Though the events that followed happened in lightening speed, everything was captured by my mind to be replayed later in agonizing slowness.   
  
The shaking hand that held the gun aimed at Mac began to pull the trigger. Mac reached behind her back to pull her own ever-present handgun. I used the momentary distraction to lash out, forcing my captor's hand holding the gun up and slightly to one side, at the same time Judson rushed us. Two shots rang out and two people fell to the ground.  
  
*~*~*~*  
  
I wake with a scream frozen on my lips.  
  
"Well, look who's decided to join us."  
  
I recognize the voice, but for some reason, my mind refuses to accept what I'm hearing. "Judson? You're awake?"  
  
"I've been awake since late last night, which is more than I can say for you."  
  
I finally glance at my watch and realize that I've been sleeping for over 10 hours. "You're okay?" I ask. "Y-y-you're..."  
  
"Alive and kicking." Mac cheerfully supplies the words my tongue is unable to form.  
  
All the pent-up guilt that has festered in my mind over the past two days suddenly comes barreling from my mouth. "Judson, I'm so sorry. I almost got you killed. I shouldn't have pushed that guy's arm like that. I should have..."  
  
His simple raised hand halts my stumbling words. "It's okay, Gabe. You didn't do anything wrong. You made the right decision to act." He proceeds to explain why my actions were correct, absolving me of my sins. His words are no different than those spoken by Mac only yesterday, but those words, combined with the fact that he's now awake with his memory completely intact, do the trick this time.  
  
A huge weight is lifted from my shoulders. The guilt no longer eats away at my soul.   
  
I have never liked guns.  
  
I never will.  
  
THE END 


End file.
